


Forming Constellations

by Beanwhile



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Babies, Backstory, Domestic, Gen, Hospitals, Hux Backstory, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, One Shot, Self-Indulgent, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:19:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanwhile/pseuds/Beanwhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin agrees to be the hold-father of Commandant Brendol Hux's future child. Once the baby is born, he keeps his promise and pays the family a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forming Constellations

**Author's Note:**

> This was written more than a month ago, and then promptly forgotten due to real life business. However, when Life Debt announced both Maratelle and Armitage's names I couldn't _not_ use them, but I couldn't alter the fic to fit the latest canon without changing its essence either, so... here we are.
> 
> A [hold-parent](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Hold-Parent)*, in short, is the SW (Legends) version of a godparent.

                Tarkin suppressed the need to brush an imaginary speck of dust off his uniform. Military neatness was a second nature to any officer, though it paled compared to the sanitation requirements of medical institutions.

                He was agitated, and loath to admit it. Social visits weren’t the prime of his jurisdiction. He preferred action to talk; demonstration to show. His respect for the Emperor’s main propaganda team doubled. They did a lot with what little time Palpatine would spare them. Tarkin would put to the test his strategy.

                Most of the rooms, he was pleased to observe, were labelled as occupied. Some appeared still; but from others came the excited chatter of a grown child, visiting his or her mother and the new member of the family. The breeding program’s preliminary results on Arkanis were more than promising. He made a mental note to delegate that bit of information down the line to the one in charge of the sector’s population.

                He recognized the number Brendol had given him, and swerved towards it. Brendol Hux, Commandant of the Arkanis Academy, was the closest thing to an ambitious next-generation relative Tarkin had spared himself via life-long dedication to duty. Not a son—they weren’t close like that—but a hold-son, perhaps, or a distant relative’s child who needed someone sensible in charge. The shame of the Leonis siblings fiasco had humbled him, though only to a point where he was no longer a threat to the chain of command.

                Friendship was not a term to describe their relationship. Yet there were occasions on which the Commandant of the arguably best officer academy had to cooperate personally with the Grand Moff. A certain partnership had been forged between Hux’s energetic enthusiasm and Tarkin’s durasteel steadfastness. After that, a closeness tight enough for them to speak frankly to each other and, one day, to Tarkin’s surprise, for Brendol Hux to ask Wilhuff Tarkin to be the hold-father of his child.

_“No,” Tarkin had responded even before Brendol had finished speaking. “How can you even ask.” It had not been a question, but Brendol had taken it as one._

_“Think of the example you’ll set,” Hux had wheedled. “Did you not have great men set example for you when you were a child?”_

_Tarkin had opened his mouth to argue. According to that logic, he should be hold-father to as many children as possible— to set the example. On the other hand, he couldn’t pretend there had been no outside influence on his life. Palpatine had been his ally since his years at the Sullust_ _Sector Spacefarers Academy. Before that, Jova and the plateau had been the forge of his character. No time in his schedule to be a hold-father, he had argued to himself, but then again, perhaps there was no need for it to be time-consuming. The fear and respect the child would hold for him would be enough to keep him or her in check. With some luck, it would even keep the father._

_He had realized Brendol had lured him into the loop of his own doctrine and logic, and had scowled at the man. Hux had watched him with expectant bright blue eyes, letting Tarkin do the work for him._

What good is a legacy if the future generation is unable to make the best of it _, Tarkin had thought. And he had said_ Yes, I will _. Brendol had beamed._

_With Sentinel Base always on top of his priorities, the conversation had evaporated from his consciousness in no time._

_Months and months later, his adjutant had come to him, expression somewhat perplexed. “Sir, Commandant Hux of the Arkanis Academy has left three messages insisting that you meet him there immediately. His coordinates match those of a medical facility… is someone_ dying _?”_

_It had taken Tarkin a moment to remember a particular conversation. “Quite the opposite,” he had sighed. He had nudged his schedule here and there to allow for free time to band together in a gap, and had departed for Arkanis._

_Tarkin did not believe in fate; but the babe had certainly been favoured by the circumstances. He—Brendol had said it was a boy—was to meet his Grand Moff hold-father after only a couple of hours needed for the latter’s travel, rather than weeks and weeks on end._

                The door slid open and he entered a bright and spacious room, pure white everything save for the gunmetal-grey weather visible through the thick glass. On the bed, Maratelle was propped against a huge pillow. Her face was pale, but her red hair was as bright as ever, wound in a strict bun on top of her head. In her hands stirred the swaddled reason for Tarkin’s presence. Brendol had seated himself on the farther side of the bed, somehow looking worse than Maratelle. Both of them were murmuring to the baby, and when Tarkin entered they extended their smiles towards him.

                “I thought you would be too busy to come,” Brendol said. They shook hands over the bed when Tarkin approached.

                “Yet here I am,” Tarkin responded. He put a hand on Maratelle’s shoulder and smiled at her. “Mara. Congratulations are in order.”

                She nodded. “Thank you, Wilhuff. There was no urgency, though it is an honour. I hope my husband didn’t try to _bully_ you into coming. You must be very busy.”

                Tarkin furrowed his brows at the husband in question. “What kind of empire would allow for a commandant to bully a grand moff into doing his bidding? No. My schedule allowed for a quick visit, and I trust my subordinates can handle themselves should I be absent for a day. This is the young man, I trust?” He moved his gaze to the baby, wrapped in hospital-white swaddling cloth.

                “Yes,” Maratelle confirmed. The softness in her voice was unmistakable. She pulled at the thick fabric around the baby’s face the way one would peel a fruit. The bundle revealed a scalp covered in soft tufts of red hair, as if taken from Brendol’s own head, and a pair of big, dark blue eyes.

                “Armitage,” Maratelle called. Her voice was clear of the cooing and babbling some adults reserved for the young ones. Tarkin approved of that. ”This is Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin, your hold-father.”

                “Armitage,” Tarkin mused, “after your father? Those are big shoes to fill.”

                Maratelle readjusted her grip on Armitage before answering. The baby blinked when she brushed off a lock of hair to one side of his forehead. _If he retains such a serious demeanour being his hold-father might be a role less trying than originally anticipated_ , Tarkin thought.

                “The bigger the better,” Maratelle said. “I won’t let him squander the privilege and potential he was born amidst.” She turned her body and the baby towards Tarkin. “Would you like to hold him?”

                Tarkin all but took a step back and away from the bed. “I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

                “Nonsense,” Brendol laughed. He had kept silent until then. “You’re his hold-father.”

                Tarkin didn’t let a single muscle on his face or body even twitch, lest he gave Hux the satisfaction of reacting to the joke. He shifted his gaze towards Mara, then Armitage again. If he’d come the whole way…

                Mustering every ounce of precision, he took the bundle from Maratelle. He adjusted his arms and hands according to her instructions, mindful of his rank insignia plate and the cylinders. Babies, apparently, needed their head held since it was too much weight for their necks to support all on their own. The more one knew.

                Armitage poked two chubby hands out of his swaddling and waved them around while he was being passed over. To Tarkin’s relief, he didn’t start crying, or wriggling, or any other thing a newborn was said to do. One of the baby’s hands fell to rest over his chin and mouth, a scaled down imitation of Tarkin’s own gesture. It made the Grand Moff grin. He pulled the cloth over the exposed arm to keep it warm, and regarded the baby with a serious expression. Armitage responded in kind.

                “Nice to meet you, Armitage Hux,” Tarkin said to the baby. He kept his voice quiet and even. “You will have a lot of responsibility to shoulder when the time comes.”

                The baby let out a non-committal noise. His eyes were fixed on Tarkin’s face, and he seemed to take keen interest in it. He tossed his hand in the vague direction of Tarkin’s rank cylinders. “Discernable ambitions towards a commission,” Tarkin noted with irony.

                “There are a number of academies in the sector for him to choose,” Brendol said. Tarkin nodded. What would the son of a commandant grow up to be like? When the time was right, he would suggest they send the boy to Jova: his gift as a hold-father, should both parties agree. He didn’t know how motherhood would affect Maratelle, but he knew her well enough to assume she would agree to it. Her bloodline had produced many people of quality, herself included. There was no reason for Armitage to turn out a rotten fruit. Brendol, on the other hand… Well, no reason to waste mental energy on a distant future. Time would tell.

                “Let us meet again, Armitage,” Tarkin said to the baby before he gave it back to Maratelle.

***

_10 months later_

                Maratelle sat on the pile of cushions on the floor, and let down her hair while smiling at Armitage. On the other side of the room, DeeDee had extended her droid arms for the babe to hold onto. They were going to try walking, again. It was no urgent matter, but Brendol had been… somewhat insistent. Maratelle had had to explain to him that _no_ , babies were not the same as youths at the cusp of adulthood like the ones he was in charge of, but there was only so much he would listen to. Armitage, on his part, didn’t seem to mind, as long as his mother was pleased and praising him.

                She spread her arms in invitation. “Come, sweetest,” she urged her son.

                DeeDee moved forward to encourage Armitage. His little hands smacked against the droid; he let out a quiet noise of utter determination, and took a step forward. The plan—or rather, the game—was for him to advance with less and less support from DDM until he walked on his own. Getting up on his feet, walking around while holding onto things, those were long conquered. Armitage loved to clutch onto the fabric of his father’s breeches and tug it back and forth, signalling his desire to be taken someplace in the house. Brendol indulged him almost always, even if getting his pants back was a struggle.

                Walking on his own, however, had proven a challenge. Over and over again, Armitage toppled after letting go, often hurt and angered at the unknown force that dragged him to the floor.

                Most of the time, it was his mother’s hair that motivated him to play along. The rather dark tufts which had so resembled Brendol’s were gone, replaced by the much brighter—in certain light almost golden—hair identical to Maratelle’s. It was easy amusement for Armitage, so she would often leave untied braids for him to play with. There was nothing better than “helping” undo her hairdo before his bedtime was due.

                She patted her thighs and extended her arms again. Bribed by the promise of more physical affection, Armitage took another ginger step forward, then another and another. DeeDee moved behind him at a steady pace at first, then started to slow down. Impatient, he let go of the extended arms and hurried forward. Maratelle held her breath. Just a bit more…

                Without the support of the droid, Armitage waved his arms around, but continued walking towards his mother. He took four more steps, each faster than the previous, and then began to topple. Maratelle was there for him. She caught him before he could hurt himself, and pulled him in a hug.

                In her joy, she stood up and bounced him lightly. Four steps! DeeDee clapped her arms. Armitage smacked his palms into his mother’s shoulder in triumph, and Maratelle planted a smooch on both his cheeks, then two more—a kiss for each step. The baby cooed and rocked sideways, sharing her excitement. Maratelle seated him on her arm and together they went to look for her husband, mother holding baby and baby holding mother’s hair (and trying to put it in his mouth). Brendol had secluded himself in his office for some time now. Armitage’s successes, Maratelle reasoned, were always a good occasion to take a break.

                “Bren,” she called when she saw him behind the holodesk. It was currently projecting imagery of what she took to be a small, unusually smooth moon. “Bren, you have to-“

                She couldn’t finish. The moon exploded. A white core threw billions and billions of sparks, which slowly assumed the shades of blue supported by the holoprojector, then got darker and darker until the image faded. Behind it, her husband stood, ashen-faced and miserable. The moon appeared again, then exploded, caught in an endless loop of its own destruction.

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback means the world to me. Also, if you wanna talk SW villainy (or... anything, really), here's my [tumblr](http://bjomolf.tumblr.com/).


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